


The Fault Lies

by AHS



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gen, Implied Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHS/pseuds/AHS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2nd person Chris Hobbs pov, a few years after we last see him. The loud voice of denial and the persistent inner voice of truth. Dark, character piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fault Lies

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how many people want to read Hobbs pov fics, but as much as I hate Hobbs I have always been fascinated by him. So... this.
> 
> I almost feel I should apologize for taking a beloved B/J line in vain, so to speak. But that was kind of the point.

 

It wasn’t your fault. There was something wrong with him. Boys aren’t supposed to be pretty like that. And he was always looking at you. You didn’t realize why at first, and maybe you should have, but you just don’t think like a fag.

 _…You noticed more than you had to, didn’t you? You noticed his lips. You noticed his ass. But you don’t think like a fag._

It wasn’t your fault, that day in the equipment room. You shouldn’t have talked to him at all, but you were just talking. Thinking about… fuck, some slut, you can’t remember her name, doesn’t matter, but she had breasts and a pussy and a lip gloss mouth around your dick, so it’s okay. You were too far gone by the time you felt his hand and how soft and strong it was at the same time and how he knew just how to work you, but your eyes were closed so you were still okay.

 _…Was it okay that while he was doing it you thought about returning the favor? And after about what might have happened if the teacher hadn’t come back? And that your eyes were seeing him anyway, even closed, imagining those lips sucking you, and you wanted to see his cock. You wanted to see, to touch another guy’s cock._

It wasn’t your fault, the thoughts you started to have, the things in your head. He put them there. That’s what they do. They’re sick and they want to make everybody like them. But you wouldn’t let him. You were a real man and you showed him with your fists.

 _…But he surprised you, hit you back and then it just got worse, didn’t it? You jerked off that night squeezing your dick with one hand and pressing into the bruise on your jaw with the other._

It wasn’t your fault that you watched him, sought him out sometimes. You had to. You had to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t try anything. And you saw the look on his face every day at school. So smug like he knew something. He didn’t know anything about you.

 _…Except the feel of you pulsing in his hand. Your face and your breath and your cum on his fingers._

It was _his_ fucking fault because he told them all. He shouted it to all your friends and a street full of cheering queers that he gave you… No, that you _let him_. Your friends rallied around you, called him a lying faggot. But after that you kept seeing them whispering to each other and you knew they were talking about you. And your girlfriend, fuck, can’t remember her name either, the next time she wrapped her hand around your dick and started stroking, she tilted her head, looked at you like she thought it might be true, like you were thinking about him.

 _…She wasn’t a smart girl but for once she was smarter than you wanted her to be. You couldn’t stop._

It wasn’t your fault that you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was just because it felt like he was fucking winning and you couldn’t let that happen. You were a winner. You were strong, a real man, a Hobbs. He was weak and a loser and a freak, and your dad taught you the importance of winning and of eliminating any obstacles that threaten that and he was right.

 _…Your dad called you a fag when you were six, remember? Little League, when you struck out twice in a row. You didn’t know what the word meant, but you knew from your dad’s voice, the look on his face, that it was a bad thing. That’s when you gave up baseball for football, but twelve years later you’d do your damnedest to prove him wrong twice, wouldn’t you? Prove you knew how to swing a bat and hit. Prove the fag wasn’t you._

It wasn’t your fault, it was your duty. Bringing that disgusting shit to prom and looking that fucking on top of the world? He messes with your head, fucks with your life, and just goes on? No. You wouldn’t allow it. You were ready before the dance but your swing was powered extra by it. You don’t know if you wanted him to die but you wanted him to lose.

 _…He had the man, the older, really good-looking man, and you knew why he never tried anything with you again, and isn’t that part of why you hated him so fucking much? Better warn him to stay the fuck away from you before you can find out he was already going to. He didn’t even want you._

It’s not your fault the mess your life has been since. People agreed with you, they took your side, but you were still marked “guilty” and they stayed away. Football didn’t exist for you anymore, thanks to your fucking knee, thanks to that fucking faggot son of a bitch, and neither did you as high school hero. You hate your job that you know your father had something to do with and you hate the wife and kids you don’t have yet but you can already see in your mind, suffocating you.

 _…Wife you will cheat on with other girls, like you have your girlfriends, because you’re that in denial and because the only way you can get off with them is if there’s danger of getting caught. And then you will cheat on the ones you’re cheating with, with the ones you’re really afraid of being caught with, except all you need to get off is for them to be pretty and blond and very male. Just like this one._

It’s not your fault when you say the name _“Taylor”_ over and over as you pull the hustler’s hair and violently push your cock into that throat again and again. Kind of looks like him. They always do. So you always do. But this time when you come it’s not just the heat around and all through your cock but the cold of the metal in your hand and knowing what you’ve decided that does it, and _fuck it’s almost like it was him finally_ , and you bring out your surprise and let it run over where you’re spilling over those almost lips. And when the whore’s taken the money and run away screaming that you’re a freak, you put that gun in your mouth, you suck and then you smile around the barrel. Sadly, because you know he’s still got you on your knees. But gloating, because you know you’re man enough to do what he couldn’t.

 _You know what you are._

It’s still not your fault. This is for Justin...


End file.
